


the story can resume

by youatemytailor



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, i clearly have a kink so lets just move on all right, silverflint, this is mostly banter with angst sprinkled in because that's all i know how to write at this point, waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12525364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youatemytailor/pseuds/youatemytailor
Summary: “Captain.” Silver says, and it’s a wonder, truly, that he can look so suspicious with his eyes closed. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to watch me sleep?”





	the story can resume

**Author's Note:**

> hm. i have no idea what this is. i'm deep in agony once again. loosely based on the tumblr kiss prompt, _breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths_. takes place sometime after silver comes back from the dead, of course.

“Captain.” Silver says, and it’s a wonder, truly, that he can look so suspicious with his eyes closed. “Stop that.”   

Flint hums, “Stop what?” 

“You know perfectly well what.” An indulgent smile curls the corner of Silver’s mouth; like a sunrise, Flint thinks. It fills the cabin, every dark corner and crevice, lights it right up. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to watch me sleep?” 

“You’re  _awake_ ,” Flint points out, and Silver snorts as he rolls over, onto his shoulder. 

It’s a tight fit, like always. They’re curled toward one another, the cot beneath them swaying gently back and forth with the rocking of the ship. The dwindling candle on Flint’s desk is their last source of light. All things considered, they don’t have to keep doing this, Flint knows. They don’t have to keep sharing this laughably small, piss poor excuse for a bed. There are rows upon rows of hammocks on the other side of the door. There’s the island, too, of course, the shore. Solid ground; so close they could swim to it if they felt so inclined. Full of rooms and beds and relative comfort. 

They don’t have to keep doing this. 

And yet. 

Fondly, Silver nudges his knee against Flint’s to catch his eye. "Hey. I asked you a question.”

It sticks in Flint’s throat, the truth of it. Lodges somewhere under his ribs like an anxious bird. “Well, it’s the only time you don’t speak, you see,” he says at last, dry. “I was just savouring the rare moment of silence. They are so few and far between.” 

Startled, Silver chuckles. “Is that right? And how is it that it’s been months and I’ve never had the same privilege?” 

There’s humour dancing in Silver’s eyes, now—bright and playful—but it isn’t honest, Flint knows. He can tell by the way Silver is holding himself. 

“What are you trying to say?” 

“Just that I can’t remember the last time I saw you _rest_ ,” Silver says. A moment later his expression shutters open—earnest and too concerned—and Flint shrugs it off quickly before it can swallow him whole. 

“I’m a light sleeper,” he says, curling his arm behind his head and propping himself up against the cot chain. He turns his gaze to the ceiling. “That’s all.” 

He can feel Silver shift closer, pressing into his side. “Something woke you up, then.” 

“No,” Flint says. His chest is starting to feel tight. “Nothing woke me up.” 

“I see. So you never went to sleep?” 

There’s a terrible beat of silence, and then Flint says; “You snore, all right?” 

Silver makes an indignant sound. “Bull _shit_. I do not.” 

“You snore,” Flint insists, jerking his head at the door. “Ask the men. You make an excellent rooster.” 

“A _rooster_ —” 

“It’s all right. I find it charming that such a loud noise can come out of such a small person.” 

“I am not _small_ —I— _hey_ —” There’s a shuffle,  a loud whine from the chains, and then a heavy, deliberate weight settles on top of Flint’s chest, the overwhelming heat of skin on skin. The cot begins to swing in a wider arc, disturbed. “Hold on. I must have misheard. Did you just say you find me charming?” 

“Your snoring,” Flint corrects, fighting a smile as he feels Silver rest his chin right over his heart. “I said I find your snoring charming. Occasionally.” 

Silver tsks. “Liar. You find _me_ charming. Admit it. Honesty is a virtue, is it not?” 

Flint looks at him, then—and he wants to glare, wants to  _lie_ ; he hasn’t claimed to be virtuous in years, after all—but even in the dark he can see the way Silver grins, all teeth, before pouncing on Flint as if he were waiting for the opportune moment to strike. All of a sudden Flint has his arms full; there is a hot mouth against his, deft hands roam freely over his chest, sliding the thin blanket off of Flint’s hips and onto the floor. Silver presses close against him with no preamble whatsoever. As always he is demanding, and real, and _alive_. There is a blissful moment of peace, next; Silver slots his thigh between Flint’s, and when they break apart for air he noses at Flint’s chin, tips it up until he can have a go at Flint’s neck—Flint feels Silver’s tongue run over his pulse, and his head spins, and his eyes slip shut, and—the bird, the one that had lodged itself between his ribs, takes advantage. It slips free. 

As quickly as it started, Silver is pulling back, his eyes wide. “Hey, you’re trembling—Captain, _what_ —"

“Get off,” Flint snarls, staring hard at the ceiling, trying to throw Silver’s hand off his cheek. The candle has gone out. There is nothing to look at but the dark. He can feel himself splitting at the seams; his heart weighs heavy like an anchor in his chest and it’s dragging him down, down, down, through the ground and into the water, “Get off me, get _off_ —"

Silver rolls away from him so quickly that the cot goes swinging into the wall with the momentum. Something claws through Flint at the loss of contact but he sits up, immediately, fights the head-rush that comes along with it. He’s shaking earnestly now. He looks down at his hands and only feels detached, somehow, like he’s staring at them through a looking-glass. 

“You die,” he manages, after a long, deafening stretch of silence. “Every time I close my eyes you die.” 

There’s a slow intake of breath; the only indication that Silver is even listening. That Silver is even in the room, that Flint isn’t stuck in some feverish nightmare, alone. That he won't wake, suddenly, into a world where Silver no longer exists; to find that everything has been taken from him again; over, and over and over again, even when he thinks he's got nothing left to lose. 

“All it takes is one slip,” Flint continues, and he’s horrified to realise his voice is rippling, too, unsteady like disturbed water. “One slip and I’m back in that _fucking_ longboat. You’re back in the sea. And I can’t do a thing. I can’t do a _fucking_ thing, Silver, I—and I can’t sleep, I can’t go back there, I can't—” 

Something touches Flint, then, the small of his back; blooming warmth like the sun. He can feel Silver’s hand, his rings, running over his skin, and he still can’t make himself turn to face him—can't bear to look and not find him there—but he manages to catch the span of Silver’s black hair on the pillow in his periphery. That alone is enough, somehow, to put the world back under his feet. 

With a shaky inhale, Flint manages to say; “Even in my dreams I cannot save you.”

The warmth trails up, up, up, along Flint’s bare spine, and he feels Silver sit up, too, feels him scoot along the bed until he slots himself against Flint’s back, his thighs bracketing Flint’s own. One hand slips around Flint’s waist, and the other under Flint's bicep, holding him fast, steady as stone. 

“I’m here,” Silver murmurs, against the nape of Flint’s neck. His mouth runs along Flint’s shoulder, trailing up the valley of his jaw; it feels like the first drops of water on scorched earth, the first bloom of spring. “I’m here, all right? I’m _here_. Look at me.” 

They shift a little, Flint turning his head to the side and Silver meeting him in the middle; his eyes wide and earnest. “It wasn’t your fault,” Silver says, firmly, the pad of his thumb running over Flint’s cheekbone. “Do you understand? It wasn’t your fault.” 

It takes all of Flint's willpower not to lean into it. “I should have come after you. I _wanted_ to come after you—I should’ve—”

“What?” Silver demands, his tone sharpening suddenly. “You should have, what? Abandoned our men? Left them leaderless? Left them to _die_? Left Madi to—“ he sucks in a breath, rattling in his chest. He brings his other hand up and holds Flint’s face in his palms. “Listen to me. You did the right thing. You did the _right_ thing. I will not let you carry this around. I simply won’t permit it.”

He watches Flint closely, his gaze searching as if expecting an argument. Finding none, he smiles, gently, and pulls Flint close until their foreheads touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Flint rasps like a man dying against Silver's mouth; a surge of water he is tired of keeping at bay any longer, “I’m _so_ sorry, I'm—”  

Silver kisses him then. His hands slide over the back of Flint's head and he kisses as if to subdue, as if to absolve; and Flint groans the rest of his apologies into Silver's warm mouth, lets himself be held and dragged back into the cot, and maybe, Flint thinks—as Silver pulls away to say  _I'm here, I'm here, I'm here,_ over and over again like a mantra, into every inch of Flint's skin, determined to make him believe it—maybe, once in a blue moon, the world returns the things that it has taken away. 


End file.
